


Package for Tseng

by goddamnitaisha



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddamnitaisha/pseuds/goddamnitaisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tseng inspects a collar that is not meant for a guardhound, but for his boss Rufus. He wrestles with his own increasingly sexual thoughts and then masturbates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Package for Tseng

The doorbell rang, the product arrives in discreet packaging. Tseng signs, is handed the box. “Thank you. Bye.”  
He closes the door with his shoe. He puts the box down on the kitchen table. He thoughtlessly takes a slim knife from the strap around his ankle and carefully cuts the plastic at each square side of the box. He saws through the plastic. Stops.  
He facepalms.   
He turns to make himself a cup of tea, _This is stupid,_  but he doesn't have the patience for the teabag to colour the hot water.

His hands pluck the thin white paper, and he folds each sheet open like petals on a rose bud. His face is hard with concentration. He pulls the last leaf away, and -

_It's perfect._

His fingers hook inside the black leather ring, and he lifts the collar from its paper bed. It weights heavy in his hands, but should still be light enough not to inconvenience Rufus. The various metal parts make it heavy enough not to look like a toy. Oh, but it is a adult toy.

 _A toy for a toy,_ he thinks. _Though he's barely an adult. This isn't even legal._

At least not for another month or so. And six days. Tseng knows -not because he's been counting down or anything- no, it's his job to know.

His long fingers spider over the collar. He pinches the top of the ring between his thumb and pointer finger and runs them all across the upper rim, making sure that there are no sharp edges. There aren't.  
He does the same at the bottom of the ring, and there are no sharp edges either. The leather is sealed with a coating, thus easy to wipe off and clean. The metal parts are a little bit colder.  
One thing he loves, the reason why he had it custom made from this seller, is the ring at the front. It's big enough for him to hook his pointer finger through it, and he imagines Rufus wearing it. His free hand slams on the flat surface of the metal table and he leans on it heavily to stabilize himself. His knees are weak, legs trembling. The _reality_ that hits him is both a pleasure and a torture.

Rufus wearing _this_ ... big, big blue eyes. Cocky lopsided smirk, fiddling with the strap at the back...

The image is much more than the Turk, in all his weeks of waiting for this package to arrive, can handle. His zipper presses against the table. He's tense.

He feels the sudden need to measure it up. Is it the right size? He shapes his right hand in the letter C, like he'd normally to to grab the back of Rufus neck. He measures the collar against the shape of his hand. It fits. Nevertheless he zips the strap one unit tighter, and then slips it over his hand. He pushes it over his wrist, then his elbow, and tests it on his upper arm. His muscular arm is as thick as as Rufus' neck - and the collar fits on his arms. He lets out a sigh of relief - or perhaps it's a sigh of tension. He cannot squeeze a few fingers between his arm and the collar, but maybe if he loosens it a little, it will give his boss room enough to breathe. He should remember to check it.

_Rufus gets awfully red in the face when he training in the gym with too many layers of clothes on his back._

Asphyxiation isn't on Tseng's kink list. At least not yet. Though with Rufus.... Tseng would gladly hold him down below him, two hands on his throat, and watch with an unmoving face how Rufus will toss and struggle to escape and get redder and redder.   
Asphyxiation is on Tseng's kink list _now._  

He makes a mental note to wear tight boxers and loosely fitting trousers to work tomorrow.

He slips the collar from his arm, turns it in his hand. He tosses it from hand to hand, then curls all ten fingers around the black leather. He yanks the collar hard, so the ring of leather shapes into an oval. The seams protest against his palms, but the leather doesn't give way. This is much to his satisfaction. It's as sturdy as a guard hound's collar - but made for a human being.

Suddenly he remembers something, and determined curiosity makes a frown form on his face. His right hand pulls sheets of paper away, and he searches for something. He pulls another crisp white sheet away. Ah - there it is. In the box is a chain is rolled up in the shape of an 8, sealed in a plastic bag. The leather part of the leash is in a separate plastic bag.

Tseng puts the collar down on the table and the first thing he does is pulling the wrapper off the leather leash. He tests it around his hand. This leather is rougher, sturdier than the collar's. He tries to yank it and it almost instantly gets the shape back. It would probably keep its shape when wrapped around his wrist, too.

The Turk licks his lips.  _Oh Rufus..._

He takes the chain out of the packaging, and it unfolds with a metal singing sound. It forms a vertical line from his hand to hos knees. Every link glitters in the lamp light, and he caresses his fingers over it. This is a good quality chain. Between his fingers, it feels like water. He tests it, too. No complains.

He opts putting everything back in the box and placing it in is bedroom, but the thrill hasn't worn of. Rather, seeing the three separate parts united provides him with an exhilaration that makes his heart swell and his throat tight.

He puts it down.

He goes back to the kitchen and pulls the teabag from the pot. He throws the heavy bag in the sink, not minding the trail of dark splatters that run from the teapot over the counter to the sink. He opens a cabinet, it's empty, closes it.

He opens the dishwasher, pulls out a designer cup. He smells it. He runs a finger over the inside, and it seems moderately clean enough. This was probably the cup in which he'd had his morning tea. He clicks the dishwasher close with his knee, and switches it on. Forgetfulness is humane. It's one of the tiny tell-tale signs he still has _some_ humanity left. He'd rather be forgetful at home, than at work.

The man pours himself a cup of tea, and adds some water from the tap to get it to a drinkable temperature. He nips his tea. The dishwasher hums. He wonders what Rufus would think if he ever brought the young diva home with him. Not that Tseng would ever do that. No, he wouldn't... The safety risks would be too high.

Though the idea is pleasant enough. So as he nips his tea and takes the collar and chain from the table, he thinks about taking the young heir away from the closed confinement that are his quarters in the Turk Department.

And from there on, Tseng's mind wanders. As the director, he could probably find a good enough reason to take Rufus out of the prison. His Turks wouldn't talk. They'd make narrow eyes and voice objections, but they wouldn't mention anything to third parties. If Tseng had him, then what?

_Bring him home?_

The thought is as stupid it is appealing. It's dangerous. It's dangerous to think of Rufus that way, and yet he continues to do it. 

Tseng falls back into a white chair he bought with Rufus' colour sceme in mind. The back of the chair is high, and the arms of the chair curl into a spiral like young leafs in spring have yet to uncurl. He nips his tea, and looks at the collar on his lap. The chain collects between his strong thighs.

He swishes the tea around in his mouth with his tongue and lifts the collar to smell it. Of course it smells raw and new. He makes a mental note to spray some of Rufus' colonge over the collar later. Tseng's got an identical flask in his bedroom. Once he knew the brand, it was easy enough to buy his own.

Tseng puts his teacup down on the floor beside his chair. The steam curls against his hand and against his fingers. He sits up straight again, and pulls out his phone. He flips it open. He opens the photo folder. He enters a password, and flips through the photos. Most of these are photos he shouldn't have. Most of these are photos that shouldn't exist,  most definitely not on a personal handheld device. If anyone could get their hands on it... the director would be in big trouble.

Nevertheless he keeps the pictures, and as dealing with danger is part of his job, the thrill wears off and it became part of his routine. There are lots of things he shouldn't do. This has merely become one of them.

With his thumb on the button he moves to the next picture. Rufus at Costa, bracing himself against an upcoming wave, with the white T-shirt clinging against his body with such tightness every muscle underneath is visible. Next picture, Rufus in the bathroom in just a towel, leaning close to the mirror while shaving. Next picture, Rufus knocked-out and half undressed his crisp white bed.

Tseng licks his lips.

Next picture.

Rufus on the bed, and the bed is now made, but Rufus is now fully undressed. The photo is made from the foot-end, and Tseng zooms in on Rufus' face.

His free hand opens his own belt and the button of his trousers, and he pulls the zipper down. His black eyes remain fixed on the phone as he moves the arrow down and the focus of the picture shifts from Rufus' face to his throat, and over his collarbones, over his chest, and further down. The blue light of the phone illuminates his face. He memorizes the image, then flicks the phone close. He puts it in his breast pocket. With his free hand, he grabs the collar instead. His fingers of his left hand weave through the chain. He grabs the collar, fondles it. He imagines Rufus wearing it. Rufus's face could be between Tseng's knees. This is his house after all.

And thus Tseng works. At one point he begins to pant. His hips jerk forward. He presses his nose against the collar, feels the chain against his cheek, breathes in the scent of brand-new leather.

Tseng pours his cold tea in the sink. It washes over the teabag. He washes his hands. He looks at the digital clock and counts the minutes from the moment he sat down to the moment he stood up.  He dries his hands off with a paper towel. He pulls four pages from the roll, and he crushes them in one hand. He dabs the ball against the underside of the tap to wet it.

The coating of the collar works as good as he had predicted, and the stains come off easily. He wipes it again with a dry part of the paper towels. His long black hair falls past one side of his face, and he pushes it behind one ear. He throws the paper towels into the bin. He puts the collar back into the square box, takes it to his bedroom, and puts it on top of one of his closets. When he lays in bed tonight, he will be able to see the box.

He goes to the computer in his study, and starts it up.

_One collar isn't enough._

He wants straps for the ankles and wrists, too.


End file.
